I was supposed to go to two different concerts last night, and I made it to neither. I guess some might call it old age; I prefer to call it "sickness prevention." Going on limited sleep for the past couple of weeks, I just needed a break from being hip. (We all know how cool I am, yeah? My love for unicorns and Oscar Wilde gives it away, I think. Hrmmph.)
So yeah, I was supposed to see some locals at the Grog Shop. I had also promised a friend I'd check out the Temper Trap at the the HOB's Cambridge Room.
At the risk of sounding reeeallly old, and ever more peculiar, (I don't use a cane yet, but that time will come) I'm going to throw out a blanket statement: out of both of the concerts I was supposed to see, I would have preferred to swap with my parents. They went downtown to the Moondog Coronation Ball. While they were watching the 70-year-old members of The Turtles, Paul Revere + the Raiders, and Little Anthony and the Imperials, all the hip young kids were missing out.
I guarantee that the old people fest out-funned any of my other options for the night. When you've got a slew of sweet-ass old musicians (including the keyboardist from the Cars, I must mention), and a slew of sweet-ass old people in the crowd, that just can't be beat. I would have loved to say that I was the youngest baby in the audience, watching those masters at work.
In the end, I ate a bowl of chicken noodle soup and hung out around the house while my sister and her friends played drinking games to The Room. It was one of those nights - the ones where you wish you grew up in the 60s and 70s, before Tommy Wiseau was making awful soft-core porn movies and before local bands with emo haircuts tried to sweep 12 year olds off their feet.
I mean, really, swooning over bowl-cuts must have been so much classier. No?